Just Another Day
by AdlockedMrsCumberbatch
Summary: Two years on from Karachi, Irene Adler is settling into her new life in Crete. After a boring day at work, she is longing for a Sherlock-shaped surprise to brighten things up. And then the doorbell rings. Adlock two-shot, post-Reichenbach, COULD be considered a sequel to 'She Had Never Been One To Show Emotion' but you don't have to have read that first. M rated for smuttiness.
1. Chapter 1

***Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or it's characters, any and all rights belong to the BBC***

Irene Adler settled down in front of her TV for the evening, a glass of good red wine in hand. She had legally been 'Jennifer Hathaway' for two years now, since Karachi, and was enjoying the new life that Sherlock had set up for her in Crete, a generally over-looked part of Europe, at least by anybody of concern to her supposedly dead self. 'Jennifer' had a job, working as a receptionist in one of the many popular tourist hotels around this picturesque part of the world, and although it wasn't as highly paid as her old work, she couldn't complain.

Today had been just another day at work for Jennifer. There had been two incidents of lost luggage to pass on, ten new bookings (it was holiday season after all) and three lost room-keys to be reported. Jennifer didn't mind mundane, but Irene was bored out of her wits on days such as this had been. She didn't mind so much when something actually _happened- _a complaining customer to deal with (she did enjoy to argue) or some lost children to reunite with their families (at least that way she could pretend she was with her favourite Consulting Detective, tracking them down as though they were the criminals in an exciting new case. She could always hear his hypothetical deductions in her brain as she looked over the misplaced little lambs, taking in what kind of family they were from and where their relatives were likely to be.) But ordinary days were just so exceedingly _dull. _As she plonked herself onto the sofa in the living room of her moderately swish Cretan apartment, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, she craved the distraction of the game she had lost long ago.

She removed the claw-grip from her shiny brunette hair and ran her hands through it, then took a sip of her wine. A lot had changed since she had last seen Sherlock. He was 'dead' now too. Of course, she had known he wasn't really, even before he sent her the text. He was the man with no heart, nothing had ever beaten him before. Not even she had managed it, much to her annoyance. Some tabloids ganging up on him would roll off him like water off a duck's back. What would have broken him would have been his friends coming to harm because of him, and by committing suicide how could he have known that they would be safe? And besides, it was such a cowardly, submissive act for someone as strong-willed as Sherlock, to just give up like that. In short, nothing added up.

The text had just been final confirmation of her suspicions:

_I'm not dead, let's have dinner._

_-SH_

It was a humorous echo of their past, and she appreciated his wit in what was for him a very dark time. It hurt her heart a little to think of all the horrors he would have to face in the not-so-distant future. Of course she had deduced that he would now have to play dead for some time, and that knowing him he would probably spend it breaking down Moriarty's criminal web, dismantling it thread by thread until The Spider was homeless. Not that he'd be needing a home. She knew that he was dead too; or at least trying to be. She suspected that he too was faking- he had the power to and she knew that he had done so before, before Sherlock was involved. Still, he was 'dead' for now, and she was glad; a world with no Moriarty was a safer world for Sherlock. That didn't mean he wouldn't get still get hurt though. That hurt her heart a little too. Not Irene's heart, no Irene was far too uncaring for that, but Jennifer's heart despaired when she thought of anyone so much as touching a hair on her Consulting Detective's head. Her new alias was soft.

The idea of having 'dinner' as Sherlock's text had insinuated _was _something that moved Irene's heart though. She knew that wasn't what he was meaning, but it was no secret that Irene would very much like their relationship to turn physical. As it was though, she wasn't even sure if they had a relationship at all. After he rescued her in Karachi, both their masks had slipped, and high on adrenaline and relief, they had given in and slept together, but Irene knew it was more due to relief and impulse than deliberate intentions. He had stayed with her for two days in Crete, to help her settle, but over that time they did nothing of any romantic nature, except casual flirting as was their norm. It was as though Karachi never happened, and though that hurt Irene more than she let on, she understood why he was acting that way: he was still struggling to understand it and process whether he might feel something for her, and he still thought (quite rightly) that sentiment was a weakness; he didn't want to be weak and succumb. When he left on the third day, he said goodbye with words and a chaste kiss to her cheek, but it lacked feeling and Irene almost wished he hadn't done it at all- it was a tantalising reminder of what they could have if they swallowed their pride.

And she regretted to say she hadn't seen him since. They had kept up a steady stream of texts until his fall, all flirtatious and filled with innuendos, but after that, barely ever. He sent her that one text after the fall, but other than that, nothing.

And that hurt.

She supposed it was hard for him, given how busy he was, but she also suspected he was trying to distance himself, to prevent having to tear himself away from somewhere he'd rather be. It was touching to know that, if this was the case, he cared, but it still wasn't enough to quench her thirst for him. There were times when she considered tracking him down to help him, just so she might see his face, but she knew she would be less of a help and more of a hindrance to him. So she had to go on alone, reliving their night after Karachi when she needed to, to get her by, and imagining his witty remarks or impressive deductions in situations she found herself in in her daily life. The truth was, she missed him. And though that was a scary thought, she wasn't scared to admit it any more.

She missed him now, as she sat on her sofa with her wine, solving the crime on the murder mystery drama long before the detective did. If he was there with her, he'd have solved it much faster, she thought to herself with a bitter laugh.

And just as she thought that, the doorbell rang.

**A/N: Thanks for reading, please review, good or bad, I just love to hear your views! ~AdlockedMrsCumberbatch**


	2. Chapter 2

***Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or it's characters, any and all rights belong to the BBC***

She couldn't believe it.

Sherlock was _here. _In Crete. With her. Topless.

Covered in deep cuts and angry purple bruises, and a rather large gash to his chest which she suspected might need stitching.

Oh shit.

"I'm hungry," he panted, supporting himself against her doorframe, sweat dripping from his now shoulder length matted curls. "Let's have dinner."

"About bloody time." She said, letting the relief filter into her tone.

She let him past her and followed him into the living room. "Sit," she told him firmly.

"But I'll wreck your sofa." He said reasonably, despite the pain he must have been experiencing.

"Sofas can be replaced, Sherlocks can't, now for God's sake sit and let me clean you up!"

Sherlock sat.

Irene walked swiftly into the kitchen and pulled out her first aid kit, before making her way back into the living room and trying to supress the odd mixture she was experiencing of relief, excitement and anger at the state he was in.

"What happened?" she asked in a tone that was supposed to be casual but came out tight and dripping with pathetic concern.

"Moriarty's Belgian consultants don't seem to like being mocked." He said, and Irene couldn't help but laugh at his audacity. Only Sherlock Holmes would mock some of the world's most dangerous criminals. Seemed a bit of a lacklustre motive for inflicting this much damage though, she thought, eyeing one of his cuts with a frown.

"Is that _all _you did?"

"Well… I might have told one of them that his daughter was sleeping with his brother, and another that his wife was having an affair with a very prominent _female _politician. But anyway, hello! Long time no see."

Irene could hardly believe his nerve. She eyed him coldly and before she knew it she had slapped him.

"Ow?" he said, questioningly, confusion in his eyes. "Haven't I had enough of that already?"

"You _idiot!" _she cried. "One text, Sherlock, just one tiny little text, just to let me know you were still ok!"

"I've been busy!" he retorted. "I've been chasing down some of the world's most dangerous criminals and you think I would have had time to text? Gosh Irene, to think I admired you for your _intelligence_ of all things when you come out with nonsense like that!"

"Snubbing me won't help Sherlock." Murmured Irene quietly.

She cleaned his wounds in silence for a while, only punctuated by his still steadying ragged breath and the odd wince, and the warm water with the antiseptic dissolved in it that Irene was using, lapping against the side of the bowl or splashing each time she dipped her handkerchief in.

"Admired." She muttered after a while.

"What?" he enquired.

"I notice you used past tense. Do you not admire me anymore?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Jesus Sherlock, did Karachi mean _nothing _to you?" she said, trying and failing to keep the pent-up emotion from her voice. "Was it just a bit of _fun? _Something to ease your boredom? Is that all I am, Sherlock, your toy that you occasionally play with when real life gets _dull?_"

Sherlock stiffened. His eyes were filled with anger and irritation, but if she looked hard enough, Irene could see something else hiding in those ice-blue orbs: Hurt.

"Of course it meant something." He murmured, barely audible. Irene stopped cleaning the gash on his chest abruptly and looked up into his eyes.

"I don't do anything by halves Irene, you should know that. Of course it meant something. It meant too much."

Irene found herself repeating her words from long ago. "There's no such thing as too much."

She felt his hands move soundlessly to her wrists, to take her pulse, but much as his touch was soothing to her after wanting it for so long, she still had a couple of shreds of dignity left. She shook them roughly off.

"There is when sentiment is involved." He said, looking her square in the eye. "You of all people should know that."

The tension in the room was high. Each wanted to submit to the other (or dominate, Irene was never quite sure) but neither could bear to lose. Irene wanted to hear him say it.

"If it meant that much to you, why didn't you text me?" she asked, mask back on, an air of cool indifference around her. She knew it was pointless given their past conversation, but it was just what she did when she felt exposed. Old habits died hard.

"I couldn't." he said. "I wanted to, many times, I really did. But any contact I made could allow them to trace you, it could have compromised your safety."

She raised a sceptical eyebrow; she wasn't convinced.

"…And…" Sherlock was so close to saying it, and it was rather amusing to see him teeter on the edge. But she was growing impatient.

"And?"

Sherlock sighed and looked away. "And I knew that if I texted you once I wouldn't be able to resist texting you again. If I made contact once it would have made refraining from it harder. It was easier to bear being away from you by distancing myself completely."

Irene smiled a satisfied smile, but she wasn't quite done torturing him yet.

"All of which leads you to think that…?"

He gave her a contemptuous look. "I've missed you. A lot. I'm sorry I didn't text you."

"Thank you dear. Apology accepted." There was silence for a moment while Irene finished dressing the gash. Then she couldn't hold herself together anymore. Her mask splintered and shattered into a thousand pieces, and she was exposed and vulnerable, but for once she didn't care.

"Look what they've done to you Sherlock!" she whimpered, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Look at your poor body! They've hurt you so much!"

She dipped her head and placed light, quick kisses to his cuts and bruises. The antiseptic stung her lips and the salt in her tears stung his wounds. How apt, she thought, each causing the other mutual pain.

"Irene," he murmured, but he got no response.

"Irene." He repeated, firmer, placing a gentle finger under her chin to tilt her tearstained face upwards. Her eye make-up had run and she looked as vulnerable as he had ever seen her- even more so than in Karachi. Even more so than in Mycroft's office.

"Irene, you're forgetting that I actually came for dinner, and I still haven't received my order. You're kissing the wrong part of me."

Irene looked at Sherlock for a moment. Then her heavily dilated pupils disappeared behind their wet lids and her lips collided clumsily with his.

Relief and release radiated through her as all the pent up hunger and longing and tension left her body. She knew she had missed him, but hadn't realised how exactly how _much _until now, when she was back in his arms. Indeed she had not just missed him, she had _craved _him. She had needed this for a long time, and as their kiss deepened and not just their lips but their teeth and tongues began to crash together hungrily, she knew he felt the same. He hooked his arms around her waist and pulled her onto his lap, and she settled there, one hand massaging the nape of his neck, the other working through his matted dark curls, pulling on what she knew were sensitive follicles- an action which drew a little growl from the depths of his throat. She responded by quickening their pace, and he scrunched his hands through her hair, so soft and luxurious. It was a feeling he had missed. His hands began to roam her back and pull them closer together still, despite the pain it sent through his crushed ribs. Irene continued to kneed her hands through his hair and began to grind her body against his, making him buck his hips a little. She smiled against his mouth. He was utterly helpless and at her mercy (at last). She almost wished she had her old props from her house in Belgravia- she enjoyed seeing him submit and beg for her. Wanting to torture him just a little more (it was the least he deserved for torturing _her _so much over the last two years), she slowed her pace right down, but pressed her lower body harder against his groin, the friction sending him almost crazy. His hips bucked against her again (begging a second time, she thought with a smile. She'd always said she'd make him beg for mercy twice) and he groaned slightly, quite overcome with lust, fingers flying to the buttons on her blouse and clawing hungrily at the waistband of her pencil skirt.

"Dinner. _Now." _He growled into her ear, and not needing any more encouragement, she took his hand and led him to her bedroom.

Later, skin to skin and breathing hard as both basked in the post-coital glow, Irene stroked the wounds on his chest again. "I hope I didn't hurt you too much." She said breathily. "I can get quite rough during sex."

A laugh rumbled in Sherlock's chest, and Irene felt it against her face. "Bit late for that _now,_ isn't it?"

"Oh fine, ok, I won't express concern next time." She said sarcastically.

"No, you didn't hurt me, but to be fair I doubt I'd have noticed if you did. I've noticed that two years' pent-up sexual desire makes for a very effective pain killer." He said, ignoring her remark.

"You have to make everything sciency don't you?"

"But everything _is _'sciency', as you put it, I just highlight it."

"I've noticed." Irene laughed. The laugh dissipated into a comfortable silence.

"In answer to your previous question, no." Said Sherlock after a while.

"What question?" asked Irene sleepily.

"Think," Sherlock retorted, once again dragging up a line from their past. "It's the new sexy."

Irene laughed, but couldn't think for the life of her. Her mind was still blissfully blank and cloudy from their 'dinner.'

"I can't remember, honestly. My sex appeal must be wearing off."

"Never." Sherlock said, and she shot him a saucy look.

"You asked if I didn't admire you anymore." Said Sherlock after a second. "And the answer is no. I don't."

Irene raised her head to look at him, incredulous. "No? What are we doing _here_ then?!"

"Oh Irene, your problem has always been that you jump to the most desirable conclusion." Sherlock sighed. "I have been pondering that question during our previous sex and the answer is no, I don't admire you. You see, admiration is simply not the right word anymore. I have thought long and hard about what I actually feel for you now, and I have come to the conclusion that there is only one word that accurately describes it."

Irene's breath hitched. "Which is?"

Smirking, Sherlock dipped his head to whisper into Irene's ear. What she heard was a simple, overused four letter word, but it sent her pulse-rate rocketing and her pupils dilated wide with desire.

"Oh Mr Holmes, that's a very sentimental statement to make. I'm disappointed."

"A blatant lie." Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh?"

"Your pulse is ridiculously high and erratic and your pupils are dilated to twice their normal size. You are most certainly not disappointed."

Irene smiled. "You always were my weakness Mr Holmes. I don't suppose I can attempt to fool you into thinking I'm pretending a second time?"

"You can try if you like, but I won't believe you."

"I agree with your description though." She said after a while, in regards to a certain four letter word. "I think it's mutual."

Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow and hovered his face close to hers.

"Good. Now, I find that despite a gloriously filling dinner, I'm still peckish. How about seconds?"

**A/N: Thanks for reading, please review! ~AdlockedMrsCumberbatch **


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